Tilt
Down here,
winter rains and summer storms swell
the clay called Loess, swirl
of sediment and skeletal dust
blown by winds across eons, from far
continents. It settles and shifts,
and the whole house tilts on its slab,
and dry skies draw it back. Gaps
at corner walls and jambs mark the seasons.
It takes a case of caulking to seal the cracks,
paint to hide the fix.
One summer,
my father stood at an outside wall,
hefted his weight on a post-hole digger,
pierced the sod and pulled up sticky soil,
copper-colored, and deeper,
veins of bruised blue. In a wheelbarrow
he mixed concrete with a shovel,
plugged each hole to halt the stubborn
tug of earth. Still,
doors open and shut on their own accord.
Pictures hung on walls lean
into the slant. The slow heave
and sigh of loam mock our attempts
to line and level. Our bodies recalibrate
the angle. The tilt
calls water from a toppled glass,
draws it down
to the darkest corners. It flows fast,
unafraid to follow.
Jane is the poetry editor at Medmic. Her poems have appeared in Empty House Press, The Shore, The Night Heron Barks, Intima, and others. She is an occupational therapist in Jackson, Mississippi. Find her on IG: Jane E Newkirk (@janenewkirk_writer)